'>  <^  <^  <'^  4 
i^  <>  -->  'v-  -'s  ■ 


-  ^ 

•i.!? 


5F}IK  V  CJlIlil)  •:•  m  ■■■  'IW  •■•  l^H^IMH^H' 


w.  f 


Matuj 


THE 


CHILD  OF  THE  EEGIMENT. 

Music  by 

/DONIZKTTI. 

English  Version  by 

OSCAR    we:iIv. 


BOSTON : 

ALFRED  MUDGE  &   SON,  PRINTERS, 

No.  24  Franklin  Street. 

1887. 


MUSIC  LIBRARY 

University  of  California 
Berkeley 


lU^tan  Hul  ^pera  C^rmpttg. 


THE  CHILD  OP  THE  REGIMENT. 


CHARACTEKS. 


SERGEANT   SULPICE,  of  the  Twentieth  Grenadiers. 

TONY,  recruit  in  the  Twentieth  Grenadiers. 

CORPORAL,  Twentieth  Grenadiers. 

BRUNO,  Steward  of  Countess  Berkenfeldt. 

MARIE,  Child  of  the  Twentieth. 

THE   COUNTESS  OF  BERKENEELDT. 

BABETTE,  a  Chambermaid. 

SOLDIERS  AND  PEASANTS. 


476 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  REGIMENT. 


ACT  FIRST, 


Bruno. 


Countess. 


Scene.     A  Valley  in  fie  Tyrolese  Mountains. 

Chorus. 

The  foe  is  approaching, 
The  hour  is  at  hand. 
Kow  Heav'n  must  protect  us, — 
Save  us  and  our  land. 
Be  silent  and  cautious, 
And  Heav'n  save  our  land. 
See  us  imploring, 
Humbly  adoring, 

Merciful  Heaven,  hear  us  this  day, 
Guard  us  from  danger,  humbly  we  pray. 
[Enter  Countess  and  Bruno.] 

Noble  Countess,  there  's  no  danger, 
I  can  protect  you,  rely  on  me. 
Nought  but  ruin  and  destruction 
In  the  future  I  can  see. 
See  us  imploring,  etc. 


Ensem. 

Peasant.     Not  a  Frenchman  can  be  seen  upon  the  mountains;  take 
heart,  my  comrades;  we  are  free  from  danger. 

Ensemble. 
From  dread  of  the  stranger. 
Our  hearts  at  last  are  free. 
No  longer  in  danger 
Are  home  and  liberty. 
What  pleasure,  what  gladness! 
Let 's  sing  a  joyful  strain. 
Now  banish  all  sadness. 
Let  mirth  o'er  us  reign.       [Exit  all  the  Chorus. 


Bruno.  There,  Miladi.;  you  see  everything  turns  out  just  as  I 
predicted.  The  French  are  in  full  retreat  before  our  victorious 
troops. 

Countess.  I  wish  I  might  be  sure  of  that;  they  may  return  at  any 
moment. 

Bruno.  That  is  not  likely  since  they  are  clearly  outnumbered. 
So,  have  courage,  Miladi;  by  to-morrow  you  will  be  at  your  castle 
of  Berkenfeldt,  in  perfect  security. 

Countess.  Yes,  and  probably  find  everything  there  turned  topsy- 
turvy by  those  horrid  soldiers, — the  larder  emptied  of  everything 
eatable,  and  the  cellar  of  everything  drinkable;  horses,  plate, 
and  valuables  gone,  and  nothing  but  the  bare  walls  left.  Oh! 
war  is  a  dreadful  thing!     I  don't  see  why  they  have  it. 

Bruno.  And  our  friends,  the  Austrians,  are  as  bad  as  our 
enemies,  the  Frenchmen;  what  the  one  leaves  when  he  marches 
out,  the  other  takes  when  he  marches  in.  It  was  just  so  when 
the  French  were  in  Vienna. 

Countess.  Don't  remind  me  of  that  dreadful  time,  Bruno;  it  makes 
me  tremble,  even  now,  to  think  of  it.    Is  my  carriage  safe? 

Bruno.  Yes,  Miladi;  and  the  horses  and  your  trunks  as  well.  If 
you  like  to  rest  at  the  inn  here  until  tomorrow,  I  'm  sure  the 
good  people  will  do  their  best  to  make  you  comfortable. 

Countess.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  stop,  whether  it's  comfortable 
or  not.     Yes,  I  '11  go  in,  but  if  the  Frenchmen  should  come  back? 

Bruno.  Don't  be  uneasy  about  them,  Miladi;  there  probably  isn't 
one  of  them  within  five  miles  of  us  by  this  time.  Besides,  even 
if  they  should  come  back,  —  am  I  not  here? 

Countess.    But  you  are  only  one,  Bruno,  and  they  are  thousands! 

Bruno.  Thousands  of  Frenchmen,  —  mere  Frenchmen,  Miladi!  I 
am  a  Tyrolese,  —  a  son  of  the  mountains  and  crags. 

Countess.    And  how  is  that  going  to  help  us? 

Bruno.  You  shall  see,  Miladi, — when  the  hour  of  danger  is  at 
hand,  you  shall  see.  Permit  me,  —  landlord!  landlord!  Oh!  the 
landlord  is  a  landlady.  {Exit  Countess  into  inn.)  The  hour  of 
danger  is,  unfortunately,  at  this  very  moment,  on  the  other  side 
of  yon  mountain,  over  five  miles  away,  and  I  shall  have  no 
opportunity  of  distinguishing  myself  in  the  service  of  my  mis- 
tress. Worse  luck,  too  ;  for  my  courage  is  up,  the  blood 
courses  through  my  veins  with  heroic  ardor,  and  if  a  whole 
phalanx  of  grenadiers  were  to  halt  before  me  at  this  moment 
(SuLPiCE  appears  at  back),  I  should  stand  unmoved;  I  should 
regard  them  with  an  air  of  dignity  and  exclaim  in  a  voice  of 
thunder  (Sulpice  touches  Bruno  on  the  shoulder),  "VVho  are  you? 


SrL.     Halt!     What  are  you  doing  here? 

Beuxo.     Merely  admiring  the  prospect. 

SuL.     What  do  you  tremble  at? 

Beuxo.    The  mountain  air  is  chilly;  don'tjyou  feel  it? 

SuL.    The  air  chilly!     Sacre  bleu!  — it 's  quite  hot! 

Beuxo.     Well,  it  is  warmer  than  it  was;  I  perspire  from  head  to  foot. 

SuL.     Ha!  ha!    What  fools  one  meets  with  in  this  country! 

Beuxo.  Excuse  me,  I  am  travelling  with  my  mistress,  who  is  anx- 
ious to  proceed  to  her  chateau,  —  that  is,  if  you  will  permit  her. 

SuL.    How  old  is  she? 

Beuxo.     I  should  say  on  the  north  side  of  fifty. 

SuL.  Had  she  been  fifteen,  it  would  be  a  different  matter;  permis- 
sion is  granted. 

Beuxo.     Without  molestation?     Without  insult? 

SuL.     What  do  you  call  insult? 

Bel-xo.    Kudeness. 

SuL.     I  don't  understand  you. 

Beuxo.     Familiarity  or  — 

SuL.  Bah!  she  's  perfectly  safe;  the  soldiers  of  the  French  army 
respect  their  c  randmothers. 

Beuxo.     Thank  ye,  Captain. 

SuL.  Sergeant!  And  tell  your  trembling  peasantry,  who  have  barri- 
caded themselves  in  their  houses,  or  may  be  are  in  ambuscade 
in  the  woods,  that  they  may  now  show  their  sheepish  faces  in 
safety,  for  peace  is  about  to  be  proclaimed. 

Beuxo.     Yes,  Captain. 

SuL.     Sergeant! 

Beuxo.     What  does  he  keep  on  calling  me  sergeant  for? 

SuL.  And  if  they  object  to  become  Bavarians,  let  them  be  French- 
men; such  is  the  imperial  command.  I  have  not  read  it  myself, 
for  one  very  good  reason. 

Beuxo.     A  thousand  thanks,  Captain! 

SuL.  Sergeant!  Call  me  out  of  my  rank  again,  and  by  the  Emperor's 
little  cocked  hat,  I  '11  — 

Beuxo.  Say  no  more,  Sergeant, — the  first  man  I  ever  met  who 
objected  to  flattery.  I  '11  tell  my  lady  to  keep  quiet  till  this  fero- 
cious sergeant  has  followed  his  regiment. 

[Exit  Beuxo  into  inn. 

SuL.  (Enters.)  By  Jove,  they've  been  well  frightened.  'Twas 
glorious  to  see  those  fellows  fly  before  us.  On  every  roadside  we 
have  posted  the  proclamation,  and  it 's  clear  as  broad  daylight, 
'•  Whoever  proposes  to  side  with  the  Bavarians  is  a  foe  to  the 
Frenchman."     That 's  all  there  is  about  it.     (Maeie  heard  singing 


8 

outside.)    Who  is  that?      Why,  Marie,  our  pretty  daughter,  the 
jewel  and  the  glory  of  the  Twentieth! 
[Enter  Marie.] 
Yes,  it  is  she,  and  by  Jove,  she's  a  beauty!     How  fortunate  the 
regiment  to  possess  such  a  daughter! 
Mak.    It  is  my  boast  and  glory  to  belong  to  the  regiment !   I  love  it !    It 
watched  my  tender  years  with  tender  care  and  unvarying  kindness. 
SuL.    That  it  did! 
Mar.    The  Twentieth  was  my  only  father,  my  only  brother,  my  only 

guardian. 
SuL.     So  it  was. 

Mar.    But  then,  I  rather  think  I  do  them  credit. 
SuL.    Ah!  all  she  says  and  does  is  charming. 
Mar.     And,  like  a  soldier's,  high  beats  this  heart  in  my  bosom. 
In  camp  and  in  battle 

I  glory  and  I  delight. 
When  loud  cannons  rattle. 

Inspiring  the  fight. 
My  comrades,  victorious, 

Kespond  to  their  country's  call 
For  France ;  it  is  glorious 
On  battle-field  to  fall. 
SuL.  And,  I  may  boast,  't  was  I  unaided 

That  made  her  manners  what  now  they  are. 
Where  is  the  countess,  aye,  or  the  duchess. 
In  grace  and  talent  can  with  her  compare? 
Ko,  no,  there  is  not  one. 

Ensemble. 
In  camp  and  in  battle 
I  glory  and  I  delight. 
When  loud  cannons  rattle, 
Inspiring  the  fight. 
Kataplan !  Rataplan ! 

SuL.  And  now,  grenadier  of  the  Twentieth,  give  an  account  of 
yourself.     How  came  you  here,  against  orders,  at  that? 

Mar.  Could  n't  resist  your  familiar  mustache.  Sergeant,  of  which  I 
caught  a  glimpse,  as  I  halted  to  get  some  water  at  the  spring  be- 
low. Little  Goulard,  my  youngest  father,  was  almost  faint  with 
thirst;  poor  fellow!  he's  scarcely  more  than  a  recruit,  and  the 
hard  day's  march  had  been  too  much  for  him;  but  a  drop  of  Eau 
de  Yie  from  my  canteen  and  a  cup  of  spring  water  soon  brought 


him  round.  "Heads  up,"  says  I.  "Yes,  my  child,"  says  he. 
"  Left,  foot  forward,"  says  I.  "Yes,  my  child,"  says  he. 
"  March,"  says  I,  and  off  he  went  again,  as  bravely  as  the  oldest 
grenadier  of  the  line. 

SuL.     What  father  would  n't  be  proud  of  such  a  daughter? 

Mar.  And  what  daughter  wouldn't  be  proud  of  eight  hundred  such 
fathers  as  I  have.  They  are  my  only  relations,  my  only  friends, 
my  only  companions. 

SuL.  Kelations,  friends,  and  companions  that  never  diminish  in 
number;  for  when  we  do  lose  one  of  the  brave  fellows  in  battle, 
his  place  is  filled  by  another,  who  is  educated  b}*  the  old  ones  as  I 
have  educated  you.  Ah!  Marie,  many  a  good  comrade  have  we 
lost  out  of  the  regiment  since  our  battle  on  this  very  spot,  sixteen 
years  ago.     There  is  nobody  left  of  the  old  stock  but  me. 

Mar.     And  me!    You  and  I  are  the  oldest  grenadiers  of  the  regiment. 

SuL.  How  well  I  remember  that  day.  The  Austrians  were  flying 
before  us;  the  roads  were  filled  with  d}ing  soldiers  and  broken 
artillery.  Our  regiment  was  suddenly  halted,  when,  amongst  a 
heap  of  slain,  in  the  arms  of  a  dead  peasant  and  sheltered  only 
by  the  wheels  of  a  gun-carriage,  1  perceived  a  child.  There  she 
lay,  laughing  at  the  tumult  around  her,  and  stretching  out  her 
little  hands  for  some  one  to  take  her. 

Mar.     'TwasI! 

SuL.  "  Soldiers,"  cried  our  captain,  as  he  held  you  up  in  front  of  the 
line  (poor  fellow!  he  now  reposes  in  Marango),  "  here  is  a  child  for 
us.  Shall  the  regiment  adopt  it?"  "  Yes,  yes,"  roared  out  every 
grenadier,  and  you  were  handed  to  me.  My  knapsack  was  the 
first  on  which  you  were  carried,  and  you  became  the  adopted 
daughter  of  the  Twentieth  of  the  line. 

Mar.  The  Child  of  the  Regiment! 
UL.  We  have  never  been  al)le  to  make  out  either  your  country  or 
family,  although  we  did  find  a  letter  in  the  pocket  of  the  dead 
peasant,  which  afterwards  proved  to  be  in  the  handwriting  of  a 
young  officer  of  Chasseurs,  who  was  killed  on  the  same  day.  But 
never  mind,  my  girl,  we  have  brought  you  up  carefully,  and  3'^ou 
have  sworn  never  to  marry  any  one  but  a  soldier  of  the  Twentieth, 

Mar.    Yes,  father;  I  have  sworn! 

SuL.  You  seem  to  acknowledge  your  vow  with  regret.  Do  j^ou  re- 
gret it? 

Mar.     I  —  I  —  I  'm  afraid  I  do. 

SuL.    Hello!     What 's  that!     By  the  tail  of  the  great  eagle  — 

Mar.  Stop,  father!  Let  me  explain.  1  have  kept  a  secret  from 
you;  it  has  made  me  miserable. 


10 

SuL.     Go  on  —  have  it  out! 

Mar.  One  morning,  not  very  long  since,  I  had  strayed,  from  the 
camp,  in  search  of  flowers,  and  found  a  beatiful  blossom  peep- 
ing out  from  just  below  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  I  leaned  over 
to  gather  it,  but  it  was  beyond  my  reach;  I  lost  my  balance,  and 
fell  into  — 

SuL.     The  river! 

Mar.    'No,  — the  arms  of  a  young  man. 

SuL.  Hello!  That  was  contrary  to  the  discipline;  a  young  girl 
should  fall  into  no  arms  but  those  of  her  father. 

Mar.  I  know  that!  But  I  couldn't  remain  suspended  in  mid-air  all' 
day  waiting  for  the  regiment  to  come  and  catch  me. 

SuL.     True!     And  this  young  man  — 

Mar.     Was  so  kind,  and  so  — 

SuL.     Good-looking,  I  suppose! 

Mar.  Well,  he  was,  rather  nice.  But  it 's  all  over  now ;  I  'verbid  him 
good  by  forever. 

SuL,  And  you  feel  cut  up  about  it?  Never  mind,  my  girl,  you'll 
soon  forget  the  fellow,  and  give  your  love  to  some  brave  fellow  of 
the  Twentieth. 

Mar.    I '11  try. 

SuL.     The  whole  regiment  '11  be  your  sweetheart. 

Mar.  Yes,  father,  —  though,  of  course,  it  won't  be  quite  "the]same 
thing.     But  I '11  try. 

[Enter  Soldiers  with  Tony.] 

Chorus. 

Come  on,  come  on,  t'  escape  us  in  vain  you  try. 
We  know  and  punish  every  traitor  spy. 
Tony.  Good  soldiers,  softly,  softly,  pray. 

I  'm  not  at  all  that  which  you  say. 

Mar.     Heavens!  'tis  Tony. 

SuL.     What 's  all  this  about?    Whom  have  you  there? 

Corp.    A  spy,  most  likely,  Sergeant. 

Mar.     'T  is  he  who  saved  me. 

SuL.    The  devil!  is  this  your  young  Tyrolean? 

Cho.  Prowling  around  the  camp  we  found  him; 

Acting  very  like  a  spy, 
Noting  all  he  saw  around  him ; 

Sure,  for  that  he  ought  to  die. 
'T  is  unpleasant  for  the  peasant. 

But,  no  doubt,  he  's  bound  to  die. 


11 

Mak.  J^ay,  but  hear  me,  good  companions; 

My  request  do  not  deny, 

Heavens!  would  ye  doom  him  to  death 

Who  saved  my  life ! 
Cho.  What  is  this? 

SuL.  Indeed,  she  tells  you  truly. 

Cho.  Well,  if  that  be  so, 

Just  count  on  us  to  spare  him. 
Mar.  Once  by  a  giddy  torrent, 

I  lost  my  hold  and  fell; 

He,  being  near,  sprang  forward. 

At  the  peril  of  his  life. 

And  rescued  me. 

Now,  shall  he  die? 
Corp.  No,  indeed!    If  he  did  that, 

He  's  a  capital  fellow. 

Come,  let 's  be  comrades. 

Tony.     Oh,  certainly !     That 's  the  only  way  I  can  think  of  at  present 
to  remain  near  my  charmer. 

SuL.  Now  listen!     Let 's  drink  a  bumper 

To  the  health  of  him 

Who  saved  our  daughter. 

Pledge  him  with  joy. 

Our  new  companion's  health. 
Cho.  Our  new  companion's  health. 

SuL.  Pass  round  the  rum. 

Here  's  to  our  new  acquaintance, 

And  here  's  to  fair  Bavaria: 

That  is  a  toast  will  surely  please  you. 
Tony.  Not  so;  I  drink  to  France,  or  not  at  all; 

Yes,  here's  to  France,  and  you,  my  gallant  comrades. 
{       Cho.  That  was  well  said. 

To  France  and  to  th}'  comrades. 
SuL..  And,  that  his  welcome  may  be  perfect, 

Sing  us,  Marie,  your  own  especial  ditty. 
\       Ciio.  Yes,  the  song  of  the  regiment. 

Song.  —  Marie. 

First  in  the  army,  well  it  is  known, 
Our  gallant  Twentieth  always  holds  it  own; 
Nothing  can  daunt  us,  no  foe  withstand, 
(xayly  we  conquer  throughout  the  land. 


12 

Proudly  our  eagles  lift  their  heads  on  high, 

For  glory  and  honor  follow  where  they  fly. 

Here  we  are,  here  we  are,  here  we  are,  we  say; 

In  we  go,  with  a  dash,  and  we  win  the  day. 

Here  we  are,  here  we  are,  —  it  is  done; 

Bring  on  the  Twentieth,  the  battle  is  won. 
Cho.  Here  we  are,  etc. 

Mar.  When  from  the  field  to  France  we  return. 

Bright  eyes  in  thousands  for  our  lads  will  burn ; 

Sweethearts  in  plenty  each  one  will  find. 

For  to  the  Twentieth  the  sex  was  ever  kind. 

Glory  and  beauty  make  a  gallant  pair; 

Part  of  our  duty  was  always  to  the  fair. 
Cho.  Here  we  are,  etc. 

[Drum  heard  outside.] 
SuL.    There  's  roll  call!    Now  be  off  to  quarters.    (To  Tony.)    As  for 

you,  you  may  go  to  —  to  —  the  devil,  if  you  like. 
Tony.    Yes,  Sergeant! 

Mar.     He  is  my  prisoner;  I  will  answer  for  him. 
SuL.     And  who's  to  answer  for  you?    No,  no,  my  child,  discipline 

must  be  preserved.     (To  Tony.)     Come,  be  off  with  you. 
Tony.    Old  brute!     lExit.] 
SuL.     Come,  my  child. 
Mar.    Yes,  father.  [Exit  Sulpice  and  Marie. 

Chorus. 
Hark,  how  the  drum  is  rolling  to  duty, 
The  soldier  must  obey, 
And  at  the  hour  of  danger 
None  may  trifle  or  delay; 
The  soldier  may  not  sorrow. 
Nor  give  a  thought  to  care ; 
Uncertain  of  to-morrow, 
He  lives  to  do  and  dare. 

[Exeunt  Soldiers. 

Mar.  [Enters.']  Of  course,  I  mean  to  do  my  duty  and  keep  my 
promise  to  Father  Sulpice,  but  that 's  no  reason  why  I  should  n't 
see  Tony  once  more,  just  for  a  little  minute.  Not  that  I  love 
him,  —  oh,  no,  —  I've  promised  not  to  do  that,  but  just  to  tell  him 
how  grateful  I  am  to  him  for  saving  my  life,—  to  say  a  last  fare- 
well, —  and  —  and  — 

Tony.     [Enters.]    Marie! 


13 

Mah.     Oh!  I  thought  they  had  taken  you  away. 

Tony.  They  did  take  me ;  but  yonder,  where  the  road  turns  by  the 
bridge,  I  gave  them  the  slip,  and  got  back  by  a  path  that  I  knew 
and  they  did  n't. 

Mar.    How  rash!     Suppose  they  should  find  you  here. 

Tony.  Let  them;  I  shall  have  seen  you  again,  and  told  you  once 
again  that  I  love  you. 

Mar.    Yes,  I  know,  —  but  it 's  impossible. 

Tony.    What!  that  I  should  love  you? 

Mar.    Ko,  —  not  that! 

Tony.     What,  then?    What 's  impossible? 

Mar.    That  we  should  —  be  married. 

Tony.  Why  is  it  impossible?  What 's  the  reason  1  can't  marry  you? 
I  've  a  plantation  of  mulberries;  I  send  enough  silk  to  the  weavers 
to  keep  us  very  comfortably.  I  'm  half  a  Frenchman,  for  my  father 
was  one,  though  my  mother  wasTyrolese;  I  've  a  bit  of  a  cottage, 
plenty  of  relations,  all  pretty  well  off.  I've  a  cow  and  other 
conveniences,  and  I  'm  not  the  ugliest  fellow  in  the  world, —  who 
says  it 's  impossible? 

Mar.    My  father.  Sergeant  Sulpice. 

Tony.    What!  that  ugly,  old,  wrinkled,  grizzly  bear? 

Mar.    Tony,  I  won't  hear  my  father  abused. 

Tony.     Who  was  the  soldier  that  wanted  to  shoot  me? 

Mar.    He  's  my  father. 

Tony.     Two  fathers!     How 's  that? 

Mar.     Did  you  observe  the  corporal? 

Tony.    I  did. 

Mar.     He  's  my  father,  too. 

Tony.  Father  two! — father  three  it  seems,  and  those  old  fellows, 
below  there,  with  the  beards  and  large  aprons,  and  hatchets  — 

Mar.    All  my  fathers. 

Tony.    Why,  the  whole  regiment  — 

Mar.     Is  my  father. 

Tony.     And  how  many  have  you? 

Mar.     I  have  eight  hundred  at  present. 

Tony.  Well,  I  've  heard  of  forefathers,  but  eight  hundred!  Then 
as  I  want  to  marry  j^ou,  and  as  the  father's  consent  must  always 
be  had  in  such  matters,  it  would  take  me  half  a  year  to  get  the 
consent  of  all  of  them.     You  are  joking! 

Mar.  ]^o,  from  infancy,  I  have  been  protected  by  the  regiment,  and 
I  have  never  known  any  other  relation;  I  call  it  my  father.  And 
now,  Tony,  you  must  return  to  your  mulberry-trees,  for  I  have 
made  a  vow  never  to  marry  but  to  a  soldier  of  the  Twentieth. 

Tony.    You  have? 


14 


Mar.    But  take  comfort;  I  shall  never  marry  at  all. 

Tony.  But  you  shall  marry,  and  you  shall  marry  me!  Farewell  to 
the  mulberry-trees!  Farewell  to  the  silk- worms!  Farewell  to  the 
cottage!  Farewell  to  the  cow!  Farewell  to  everything  and  every- 
body, and  huzza  for  drums,  trumpets,  muskets,  and  cannon  balls! 
I  will  join  the  regiment;  it  wants  recruits;  they  can't  refuse  a  line 
fellow  like  me,  and  half  a  Frenchman  too!  Then  I  shall  be  one  of 
the  Twentieth;  I  shall  be  your  father,  and  give  myself  my  own 
consent  to  marry  you!     Aha!     What  do  you  say  to  that? 

Mar.     Have  you  courage? 

Tony.  Courage!  for  you  I  'd  brave  anything.  Courage!  try  me!  give 
me  a  smile  and  I  'd  fight  with  a  wolf;  give  me  a  kind  word,  I  'd 
tight  with  a  bear;  give  me  a  kiss,  and  I  'd  have  a  tussle  with  a  lion. 

Mar.  Brave  Tony,  become  one  of  us,  and  then  no  one  can  say  us 
nay. 

Duet. —  Tony  and  Marie. 

Tony.  A  vision  fair,  my  senses  thrilling, 

I  saw,  and  loved  then  with  all  my  heart; 
Since  then  thy  image  my  fancy  filling. 
Peace  cannot  find  me  save  where  thou  art. 

Mar.  But,  young  man,  —  this  is  but  memory,  — 

Only  memory,  and  nothing  more. 

Tony.  Ah,  no,  no!  'tis  not  so; 

Hear  me,  dearest,  and  I  '11  show 

It  is  not  memory,  but  something  more. 

Mar.  I  will!  say  on! 

Tony.  For  home  and  country,  so  dearly  cherished, 

With  fire  and  ardor  my  heart  once  burned, 
But  love  of  country  and  home  has  perished. 
To  thee,  Marie,  my  heart  has  turned. 

Mar.  IndifEerence  so  shameful 

I  never  could  forgive. 

Tony.  But  if  from  thee  I  far  must  languish. 

My  life  were  hateful,  despised  each  breath. 
To  free  my  heart  from  its  pain  and  anguish, 
I  braved  to  see  thee, —  a  shameful  death. 

Mar.  Ah,  yes,  he  loves  me:  I  see  it  all, 

And  I  am  happy,  let  what  will  befall. 

Ensemble. 
So  tender  an  avowal 
Sets  every  doubt  aside. 
Severe  has  been  our  trial, — 
Love  will  not  be  denied. 


j"   Yes,  but- 


15 

SuL.  (Enters.)  Sacr  —  r  —  r  —  bleu !  What 's  this?  (  To  Tony.) 
Did  n't  I  give  you  marching  orders? 

Tony. 

Mae. 

SuL.  But,  you  have  n't  gone!  "Well,  I'll  see  that  you  do,  at  a 
double  quick!     (To  Marie.)    And  you,  too! 

Mar.     But,  Father  Sulpice  — 

SuL.      Xot  a  word.     I  won't  have  it. 

Tony.      You  shall 'listen!     I  love  Marie,  and  Marie  loves  me. 

SuL.  Xever!  never!  Marie  has  sworn  never  to  marry  any  but  one 
of  her  fathers. 

Tony.      But  if  I  were  her  father! 

SuL.  You  are  not,  and  that  ends  the  matter.  So  now  be  off  with 
you. 

Tony.      I  won't  go! 

SuL.  You  won't!  Then  by  the  tail  of  the  great  eagle,  I'll  order 
out  a  platoon  of  the  Twentieth  and  have  you  shot. 

Mar.     Oh!  Tony,  go, —  for  my  sake,  go! 

Tony.  I  will,  but  mind,  I  don't  give  you  up.  I  '11  have  you  in 
spite  of  all  the  fathers  in  Christendom,  and  with  their  consent, 
at  that.  Don't  think,  sir,  I  'm  running  because  I  'm  afraid. 
I'll  have  my  revenge  when  I  come  back.     lExit.] 

Mar.  How  could  you  treat  my  Tony  so  roughly?  I  don't 
like  it! 

SuL.  AVas  I  to  stand  by  and  see  you  wheedled  away  from  the 
regiment  by  a  sneaking  — 

Mar.  Hush!  father,  I  won 't  have  him  abused,  and  I  shall  hate 
you  if  I  find  that  you  give  way  to  such  savage  feelings.  Your 
heart  must  be  growing  hard  and  wicked;  and  mark  what  I  say,  if 
you  intend  to  play  the  tyrant  with  me,  and  if  the  regiment  follow 
your  example,  I'll  leave  you  all.  There  are  more  regiments 
in  the  French  army  than  one.  Oh!  you  may  stare  at  me,  but 
you  've  roused  my  blood,  so  stop  in  time.  Sergeant  Sulpice,  or  I  '11 
follow  my  own  inclinations  in  spite  of  you.     Sacre  bleu!     [Exit.^ 

SuL.  This  it  is  to  give  a  child  a  good  education.  What!  change 
her  father?     Muskets,  bombs,  and  sabres! 

[Enter  Countess  ayid  Bruno.] 

Countess.  If  the  roads  are  clear  I  don't  see  why  we  should  n't  go 
on  at  once.  There  's  certainly  no  sense  in  my  stopping  here  over 
night. 

Bruno.  I  was  only  saying,  madame,  that  I  don't  think  it  will  be  safe 
jto  travel  without  an  escort.     The  roads  are  full  of  soldiers. 


16 

Countess.  Very  well,  tell  this  man  that  I  want  an  escort;  I'll  pay 
for  it. 

Bruno.  I  really  think,  Countess,  that  you  had  better  speak  to  him. 
A  lady's  request  is  bound  to  be  law  with  a  soldier. 

Countess.    Very  well,  I  'm  not  afraid  of  him. 

SuL.    Deuce  take  this  love  business!  it 's  the  ruin  of  all  discipline. 

Countess.    Excuse  me,  Captain. 

SuL.     Sergeant,  madame. 

Bruno.    Yes.    Sergeant,  Miladi! 

Countess.    I  was  about  to  ask  — 

Bruno.     Her  ladyship  was  about  to  request  — 

SuL.    Silence,  sir!    Proceed,  madame. 

Bruno.    Precisely  — her  ladyship  wishes  to  proceed  to  — 

Countess.  If  I  could  have  a  small  escort,  I  shall  be  very  happy  to 
pay  — 

Bruno.     To  reward  —  indemnify  — 

Countess.    To  —  to  — 

SuL.     I  '11  speak  to  the  colonel;  where  is  your  chateau? 

Countess.  About  a  league  distant.  If  you  will  say  to  the  colonel 
that  the  Countess  of  Berkenfeldt  — 

SuL.     OfBerken  — 

Bruno.    — feldt.     We  are  Berkenfeldt. 

Sue.     Is  that  your  name,  madame? 

Countess.     Certainly. 

Bruno.     Most  assuredly. 

SuL.     That 's  the  name.     I  'm  sure  it  is. 

Countess.     What  name.  Monsieur  Captain? 

Su^L.  It  was  in  a  letter  found  on  the  body  of  a  peasant  after  a  battle 
that  took  place  on  this  very  spot,  sixteen  years  ago;  Lieutenant 
Robert,  of  the  Chasseurs,  in  whose  handwriting  the  letter  proved 
to  be,  was  killed  in  the  same  fight,  so  we  never  found  any  clew. 

Countess.     Lieutenant  Robert!    Dead,  did  you  say? 

Sue.    Yes,  madame,  dead  in  battle.    You  knew  him? 

Countess.  I!  No,  no!— that  is  — a  lady  of  my  family  knew  him 
very  well. 

SuL.     A  lady  of  your  family ! 

Countess.    My  —  my  sister. 

Sue.     Is  your  sister  still  alive? 

Countess.    No  —  but  — 

SuL.     And  was  she  in  any  way  related  to  Lieutenant  Robert? 

Countess.  They  were  married,  but  secretly,  as  he  was  a  French- 
man, while  she  was  of  the  Austrian  nobility. 

Sue.     Were  there  any  children? 


17 

Countess.  One  daughter,  who,  on  the  eve  of  a  frightful  battle,  was, 
at  his  request,  sent  to  him  in  care  of  a  trusty  servant.  The  battle 
commenced  earlier  than  was  anticipated,  the  servant  and  child 
were  both  killed,  and  my  sister  was  left  a  childless  widow. 

SuL.    This  child,  had  she  lived,  would  have  been  your  niece? 

CouxTESS.     Yes,  sole  heiress  to  the  Barony  of  Berkenfeldt. 

SuL.  Madame,  that  child  was  saved  —  was  found  on  the  field, 
adopted  by  my  regiment,  the  Twentieth  Grenadiers  of  the  line, 
and  is  at  this  moment  alive  and  kicking. 

Bkuxo.     Kicking  I 

Countess.  Heavens!  Alive,  do  you  say?  Where  is  she?  Let  me 
see  her. 

Sue.  I  shall  have  to  find  her  first.  She  left  me,  only  a  moment 
since,  in  a  devil  of  a  passion  I 

Bruno.  But,  Miladi, — the  proof,  documents,  corroborative  evi- 
dence — 

Sue.  Plenty  of  proof,  and  documents,  too, —  all  as  straight  as  a 
muster-roll!  I  found  her  lying  in  the  arms  of  the  dead  peasant, 
from  whose  pocket  I  took  this  letter.     You  may  read  it. 

Countess.  "  I  have  seen  my  darling  little  Marie,  and  embraced  her. 
If  I  survive  this  battle,  even  the  house  of  Berkenfeldt  may  yet 
acknowledge  without  a  blush  the  poor  Lieutenant  Robert."  Yes, 
it  is  his  hand!     May  I  keep  this? 

Sue.    Xot  at  present,  Miladi !     I  must  consult  the  colonel  first. 

Countess.    And  Marie!     How  has  she  been  reared;  how  educated? 

Sue.  Like  a  perfect  lady,  madame!  Her  fathers  have  looked  after 
her  manners,  and  I  rather  think  she  does  them  credit. 

Mar.  [Entei's.'l  Sacre  bleu!  By  the  tail  of  the  great  eagle,  I've 
the  most  pig-headed  set  of  fathers  of  any  girl  in  the  army.  But 
I  "11  show  them  — 

Bruno.  How  that  girl  swears!  You  must  retire  out  of  the  sound  of 
such  language. 

Countess.     Shocking!     Bruno,  my  vinaigrette. 

Mar.     Sergeant!     Father  Sulpice!     Oh,  I  say,  are  you  going  to  cut 
up  rough,  just  because  I  lost  my  temper  for  a  minute  or  two? 
Sergeant!     All   right   then,  be  as  cross  as  you  like.     I  know  it 
won't  be  long  before  you  are  ready  to  make  up  with  your  little 
Marie. 
Countess.     Marie!     Is  that  the  child? 
Bruno.    That  she.  Grenadier!     Impossible! 
Sue.     She  is  your  niece,  madame.     Shall  I  tell  her? 
Countess.     Immediately,  I  implore  you! 
Sue.    Marie  — 


18 

Mar.     Ah,  you  forgive  me,  —  you  dear  old  bear  of  a  father! 

Suii.  Marie,  my  child,  your  family  muster-roll  has  been  made  up 
entirely  of  fathers  hitherto,  —  not  a  single  mother. 

Mar.    No,  alas. 

SuL.     Well,  we  've  found  you  one. 

Mar.     My  mother! 

SUL.     Yes  —  but  —  well  —  ahem  —  she  's  dead. 

Mar.  Ah  !  why  did  you  make  my  heart  jump  so?  I-  tremble  from 
head  to  foot. 

SuL.     But  I  have  discovered  you  belong  to  a  great  family. 

Mar.  a  great  family!  not  a  greater  family  than  I  belong  to  al- 
ready ? 

SuL.    I  am  serious;  your  aunt  is  here.     She  is  rich  and  noble. 

Mar.     My  aunt !    I  don't  believe  it. 

Countess.  Indeed,  'tis  true,  my  child.  I  need  no  further  proof  of 
your  birth  than  those  features,  —  they  remind  me  in  every  line 
of  one  who  was  most  dear.     Let  me  embrace  you. 

Mar.  You  must  have  loved  m}'-  mother,  you  embrace  me  so  kindly, 
so  tenderly.  I  have  never  known  a  kind  embrace  excepting  from 
my  fathers. 

Countess.    Your  fathers  ! 

Mar.     Yes,  indeed,  the  entire  regiment  is  my  father;  I  love  them  all. 

SuL.  The  old  letter  in  m}^  knapsack  was  written  by  your  real  father. 
It  seems  you  are  an  orphan;  your  aunt  will  protect  you  henceforth. 

Countess.  And  you  will  live  with  me.  Your  future  will  be  my 
care. 

Mar.  What,  leave  the  Twentieth,  and  abandon  my  old  friends  and 
comrades  !     Oh  !  no,  no. 

Countess.    My  child  ! 

Mar.  If  I  could  have  the  heart  to  leave  you,  I  'm  sure  you  would  n't 
part  with  me. 

SuL.    It  will  be  hard. 

Countess.  But,  Marie,  you  will  have  the  most  elegant  surround- 
ings, rich  dresses  and  jcMvels,  plenty  of  servants,  and  you  will 
ride  in  a  carriage. 

Mar.  I  'd  rather  ride  on  a  knapsack.  I  don't  want  any  better  sur- 
roundings than  I've  always  had,  nor  any  better  dresses;  and  as 
for  servants  and  society,  my  eight  hundred  fathers  have  been  l)oth 
to  me.     Oh,  Father  Sulpice,  I  can't  go. 

SuL.     Confound  the  aunt  !     I  wish  she  hadn't  turned  up. 

Countess.    My  child! 

Mar.    Yes. 

Countess.  Perhaps  for  a  time  some  of  your  old  friends  may  remain 
with  you  at  the  castle. 


19 

Mar.    Oh,  then  it  won't  be  so  bad  I     But  I  want  every  one  of  them, 

drummers  and  all. 
Bruno.    Eight  hundred  of  them,  Miladi! 
Coi^TESS.    Impossible. 

Mar.    Then  I  won't  go.     Deuce  take  me  if  I  do! 
Countess.    Marie ! 

Bruno.  Promise,  my  lady;  the  colonel  will  never  permit  it  any  way. 
COLT^TESS.  In  as  far  as  it  can  be  arranged,  you  shall  have  your  will. 
Mar.     Then  give  the  word  of  command,  and  olf  we  go.     We  '11  turn 

the  old  place  into  a  barracks  and  make  it  ring  again  with  our 

songs  and  our  dances,  won't  we,  father? 
SuL.     I  '11  see  what  the  colonel  says  about  it.     Orderly! 
Countess.     Bruno,  you  will  see  that  my  carriage  is  ready  at  the  foot 

of  the  hill.     Come,  Marie,  we  will  wait  within. 
Mar.    Yes,  aunt.     (Runs  to  Sulpice.)    I  cannot  go  without  you, — 

I  cannot. 
Countess.     Come,  Sergeant,  Ave  must  make  it  as  easy  for  her  as  we 

can. 

[Enter  Corporal  and  Soldiers.^ 

Rataplan  Chorus. 
Rataplan,  rataplan,  hurrah! 
To  the  soldier's  ear  no  sound  's  so  dear 
As  the  drum  with  its  rattling  cheer. 
'T  is  the  call,  we  are  here,  hurrah! 
With  our  line  aright,  for  parade  or  tight, 
Tap  the  drum,  and  we  are  here . 
War  thou  art  fierce,  but  thou  art  glorious, 
And  it  is  sweet  the  foeman's  land  to  sack. 
Long  live  fair  France,  our  land  victorious, 
Ne'er  let  her  sons  to  die  the  courage  lack. 
Rataplan,  rataplan,  hurrah! 

[Enter  Tony.j 
Tony.  Yes,  it  is  I,  whom  but  now  you  were  scorning 

As  one  who  spoke  without  a  right. 
•  Behold  the  colors  of  France  me  adorning. 
For  her  I  love  1  now  may  fight! 
And  though  for  love  my  life  I  surrender, 
For  my  Marie  I  '11  die  with  delight! 
So,  neath  your  standard  I  will  fight. 
For  she,  my  love  no  more  ignoring, 
Gives  me  her  heart;  and  I,  adoring 
The  ground  she  treads,  for  her  will  gladly  die. 


20 


Cho.  This  is  the  deuce;  my  good  lad,  are  you  crazy? 

Tony.  I  love  her,  and  in  you  my  hopes  confide. 

Cho.  Is  it  Marie  your  heart  has  captured? 

Tony.  'Tis  of  her  father  I  ask  her  for  my  bride. 

In  you,  her  father,  our  faith  we  rest. 

Give  your  consent,  and  we  are  blest. 
Cho.  The  foe  we  parry,  we  do  not  marry. 

Our  regulations  on  this  are  clear; 

So  'mongst  our  ranks  now  no  longer  tarry, 

Further  appealing  we  will  not  hear. 
Tony.  That 's  your  decision? 

Cho.  Nothing  can  change  it. 

Corp.  A  soldier  of  the  Twentieth 

Alone  our  child  shall  wed. 
TONY.  But  then,  as  you  insisted. 

You  see  I  have  enlisted. 

So  on  that  head,  there  's  surely  no  more  to  be  said. 
Cho.  You  must  be  mad. 

Tony.  Hear  me !     She  returns  my  passion. 

I  swear  it,  by  my  faith ! 
Cho.  If  she  has  selected, 

'Tis  most  unexpected; 

But  yet,  if  she  loves  him,  that  settles  the  case, 

And  we  'd  better  consent  to  it  with  a  good  grace. 
Corp.  If  you  say  truly, 

All  shall  end  duly. 
Cho.  And  you  shall  have  her 

Your  own  for  life ; 

Yes,  our  Marie 

Shall  be  your  wife. 
Tony.  Oh  what  rapture,  what  delight! 

Life  is  smiling  rosy  bright. 


[Enter  Sdlpice.] 
Tony.     {To  Sulpice.)    It's  all  right  now,  Sergeant,  I 've  enlisted. 

I'm  one  of  Marie's  fathers,  and  all  her  other  fathers  give  their 

consent,  so  we  can  be  married  as  soon  as  ever  we  like. 
SuL.     Not  so  fast,  my  gallant  young  recruit.    We  are  no  longer  her 

fathers.     {To  soldiers.)     Marie  is  to  leave  us. 
Cho.     To  leave  the  regiment! 
Corp.    Impossible ! 
SuL.     We  have  discovered  her  family,  and  her  aunt,  the  Countess  of 

Berkenfeldt,  will  be  her  guardian  henceforth.    Marie  is  to  live  at 

the  chateau. 


21 


Tony.     And  what 's  to  become  of  me? 

Corp.    You  can  go  in  for  glory,  now.    Perhaps  some  day  you  may 

rise  to  be  a  corporal,  if  you  are  n't  killed  first.     {To  Sulpice.) 

You  're  joking,  Sergeant! 
SuL.     Unfortunately,  no. 
Corp.     But  Marie,  our  little  daughter, —  is  she  going  to  desert  us, 

—  to  take  up  with  her  fine  relations? 
SuL.     It 's  hard,  comrades,  but  it  is  best  for  her,  and  I  know  you 

wish  only  what  will  make  her  happy. 
Corp.    How  is  it  going  to  make  her  happy,  I  'd  like  to  know?    She  '11 

not  find  truer  friends  than  she  has  in  the  Twentieth,  —  no,  not  in 

the  whole  army. 
SuL.        Hush!    here  she  is. 


Mar. 


TOXY, 
SUL. , 

Corp.  and 
Cho. 

Tony. 

SUL. 

;mar. 


SuL.  and 
Corp. 


With 
Cho. 

Marie 
and  Tony. 
Marie. 


[Enter  Marie,  Countess,  and  Bruno.] 

'T  is  time  to  part;  farewell,  my  loved  companions, 

A  long  and  sad  farewell,  read  in  my  tears; 

But  from  my  sight  in  mere}'  hide  your  sorrow. 

For,  ah,  my  heart  the  word  of  parting  fears. 

Farewell,  farewell,  beloved  friends; 

Ah,  this  my  happy  childhood  ends. 

Fond  dreams,  ye  vanish;  all  was  delusion. 

If  she  must  leave  us,  there  's  naught  but  woe. 

Wh}^  must  we  part  from  her,  why  must  she  go? 

If  she  goes,  I  go,  too;  I  '11  not  remain. 

You  're  bound  to  follow  orders,  that  is  plain. 

Ah,  must  we  thus  be  parted? 

1  shall  be  broken  hearted. 

What  sorrow  and  vexation. 

What  grief  and  what  despair, 

The  deuce  take  that  old  woman 

Into  his  special  care. 

In  toil  and  in  danger. 

When  fate  frowned  or  smiled. 

An  angel,  bearing  comfort. 

To  us  was  that  dear  child. 

Ah,  must  I  languish  far  from  my  love. 

What  bitter  anguish  this  heart  will  prove. 

And  now,  my  loved  companions, 

A  last  farewell. 

Victor,  thy  hand,  and  Henri, 

And  thou,  dear  old  Tomaso, 

I  cannot  tell 

Thee  all  I  feel,  Sulpice!  embrace  me! 


22 


Countess. 
Cho. 

TOKY. 

Marie. 


Countess. 

Bruno. 

Cho. 

Corp.  and 

SUL. 


I  am  shocked,  mademoiselle! 
(  We  who  lived  as  child  and  father, 
(  How  can  we  so  lightly  part? 

Ever  faithful,  oh,  Marie, 

Beats  for  thee  this  loyal  heart. 

I  will  be  true,  my  love,  forever. 
'  I  will  be  faithful,  love,  to  thee. 

Though  fate,  our  broken  lives  may  sever, 

Our  hearts  are  one.     Remember  me. 

Come,  niece,  we  must  away  now. 

The  carriage  waits,  you  see. 

What  sorrow  and  vexation, 

What  grief,  and  what  despair! 

The  deuce  take  that  old  woman 
L  Into  his  special  care. 


End  of  Act  Eirst. 


23 


ACT  SECOND. 

Scene.     Grand  Salon  in  Berkenfeldt  Castle. 

Bruno.    Babette!  Babette! 

Bab.     Yes,  Monsieur  Bruno! 

Bruno.     Has  mademoiselle  completed  her  toilet? 

Bab.  Bless  you,  no,  monsieur,  and  it's  only  a  man,  which  doesn't 
know  anything  about  toilets,  as  would  ask  such  a  question.  Why 
it  is  n't  an  hour  since  she  began  dressing. 

Bruno.     The  Countess  I 

Bab.  She  's  dressing,  too.  I  believe  they  're  expecting  company, 
and  if  they  are,  you  're  bound  to  know  all  about  it,  and  if  you  do, 
I  wish  ever  so,  you  'd  tell  me.  Come  now.  Monsieur  Bruno,  do 
please. 

Bruno.    I  don't  know  about  any  company. 

Bab.  You  do,  only  you  won't  tell,  and  I  think  it 's  very  unkind  of 
you ;  I  tell  you  everything. 

Bruno.     Sure  of  that? 

Bab.     Of  course  I  ami     Everything. 

Bruno.     Well  then,  you  little  witch,  —  we  are  expecting  company. 

Bab.     There,  I  knowed  it. 

Bruno.  Knew  it,  Babette;  they  were  to  have  been  here  to-day, 
but  the  duke  has  been  attacked  by  a  severe  toothache,  and  can- 
not travel.     They  arrive  to-morrow  in  time  for  dinner. 

Bab.     What  duke,  and  who  is  they? 

Bruno.  The  Duke  of  Ahremburg,  who  accompanied  by  the  duchess, 
his  mother,  comes  to  make  a  formal  demand  for  the  hand  of 
Mademoiselle  Marie. 

Bab.  The  Duke  of  Ahremberg!  What  a  grand  match!  I've 
heard  though — Lieschen  told  me  —  which  she  lived  with  the 
Ahremberg  when  they  was  in  Vienna  —  that  they  're  poor  as 
church  mice. 

Bruno.  Very  true,  my  dear.  But  a  duke  is  a  duke,  and  we  are 
rich.     It 's  our  money  against  his  title,  don't  you  see? 

Bab.  Then,  too,  Lieschen  says  that  he  's  the  least  little  snip  of 
a  man,  with  bandv  lesrs. 


24 

Bruno.  ISTobody  ever  looks  at  a  duke's  legs,  you  silly!  They  are 
supposed  to  be  concealed  by  his  rank. 

Bab.  You  can  see  them  all  the  same,  I  suppose,  and  if  they're 
bandy,  I  don't  see  how  being  a  duke  's  going  to  straighten  them 
out.     And  for  my  part,  I  despises  bandy  legs,  I  do! 

Bruno.  Yes,  bandy  legs  are  not  generally  admired,  I  believe.  It 
will  be  a  most  desirable  alliance  for  our  house,  Babette,  though 
we  are  a  very  ancient  and  noble  family.  I  think  the  Countess 
won't  be  sorry  to  see  Mademoiselle  Marie  properly  settled;  she's 
a  little  difficult  to  manage,  you  know. 

Bab.  iSTot  if  you  go  the  right  way  about  it;  she  won't  be  driven, 
that 's  all.  But  she  's  got  the  best  and  kindest  heart  as  was  ever 
inside  a  young  lady,  and  the  servants  in  the  house  just  adores  her. 
There  's  the  old  sergeant  as  came  here  with  her  —  Father  Sulpice, 
she  calls  him  —  is  n't  she  just  like  the  devotedest  kind  of  a  daugh- 
ter to  him? 

Bruno.  Yes,  undoubtedly!  But  all  that  will  be  at  an  end  now,  since 
one  of  the  conditions  of  the  marriage  with  the  duke  is,  that  the 
sergeant  is  not  to  accompany  her  to  Vienna,  where  she  is  to 
reside. 

Bab.  Father  Sulpice  not  to  go!  Then  she'll  just  break  her  hearty 
see  if  she  don't. 

Bruno.  The  duchess  is  inflexible  on  this  point,  she  makes  it  an 
ultimatum. 

Bab.  I  don't  care  what  she  makes  it,  it  '11  break  Mademoiselle's 
heart!  No,  it  won't;  she  won't  give  in  to  it.  She  '11  fight  (Bell 
heard.) 

Bruno.     There  's  your  bell. 

Bab.  I  know!  I  would  n't  go  either,  if  I  were  she;  no,  not  for  all 
the  bandy-legged  dukes  in  Austria,  I  would  n't!     (Bell.) 

Bruno.     But,  the  bell,  Babette! 

Bab.  Yes,  I  know;  and,  as  for  getting  a  husband,  I  suppose  a  hand- 
some young  lady  with  a  fortune  to  her  name  need  n't  go  begging 
very  long  for  somebody  to  have  her,  when  even  poor  girls  like  me 
has  no  end  of  offers,  with  respectable  straight  legs  under  'em 
to  pick  and  choose  from!  Bandy  legs!  indeed!  (Bell  heard.) 
Yes  'm. 

Bruno.  As  his  grace  is  not  to  arrive  until  to-morrow,  I  suppose 
there  's  no  great  hurry  about  the  settlements,  though,  of  course, 
miladi  will  want  to  look  them  over.  We  bring  for  our  portion  a 
house  in  Vienna,  completely  furnished  and  fitted,  the  reversion 
of  this  castle  after  the  death  of  the  Countess,  and  a  sum  in  gov- 
ernment bonds  yielding  a  yearly  interest  of  forty-five  thousand 


25 

florins.     The  duke  brings  his  title,  and,   as  Babette  says,  his 
bandy  legs.    Well,  it  is  rather  a  good  thing  —  for  the  duke. 

lExit  Bruxo. 

[Enter  Sulpice.] 

SoxG.  —  Sulpice. 

With  rank  and  splendor  though  they  surround  her, 
And  try  to  lure  away  her  heart, 
The  ties,  that  have  since  childhood  bound  her 
Are  of  her  very  life  a  part ; 
She  will  not  yield  them. 
Has  ne'er  concealed  them, — 
She  to  her  friends  is  faithful  ever, 
And  never 

From  me  will  m}^  darling  part. 
.  Yes,  I  have  faith;  I  do  not  doubt  her. 
Though  they  the  snare  may  spread  about  her, 
Though  they  have  means,  and  fain  would  try  them. 
She  can  be  brave,  and  will  defy  them,  — 
For,  ah,  my  child  is  she. 
Her  heart  will  ever  faithful  be. 
Ah,  me,  when  I  remember 
Her  happy  childhood  in  the  dear  old  Twentieth, 
How  merry  then  her  life,  and  how  content,  — 
And  what  a  brave  and  faithful  comrade 
She  was,  our  pride  and  our  darling. 
Eeturn,  ye  happj'  days  of  old,  — return  to  me. 
That  I  for  but  a  moment  may  again  a  soldier  be. 
That  I  the  eagles  of  fair  France 
Before  I  die  may  see. 
Can  they  be  gone  forever. 
And  shall  I  see  them  never. 
As  when  we  proudly  bore  them, 
While  the  foeman  flew  before  them. 
And  our  Emperor  led  us  on? 
Oh  I  eagles  of  fair  France,  I  pine 
To  see  you  once  more  flash  and  shine 
Before  us,  as  in  battle  line 
We  march ,  —  the  Emperor  leading  on. 

Poor  France  I     She  lies  buried  under  the   Bourbon  lilies,  with   the 
chains  of  the  stranger  riveted  about  her  coffin.    The  Emperor, 


26 

prisoner  at  Elba,  and  the  Twentieth,  —  Heaven  knows  where  it 
,  is  now!  And  my  little  Marie,  they  promised  to  make  her  happy, 
and  they  go  about  it  by  cooping  her  up  in  this  dull  old  chateau,  — 
fit  quarters  for  old  women,  —  putting  her  into  a  uniform  that  drags 
about  her  heels,  so  that  she  can't  march  at  a  decent  parade  step, 
and  making  her  salute  bent  double,  like  a  jack-knife!  It 's  a  mar- 
vel she  does  n't  mutiny. 

Mar.     [Enters.^    Sergeant  Sulpice! 

SuL.    Present! 

Mar.  Advance,  Sergeant,  and  salute!  Now  stand  at  attention  while 
I  pass  in  review.     There,  sir;  do  we  pass  muster? 

SuL.  Charming!  Charming!  Of  course,  you  don't  look  as  well  in 
that  long-tailed  dress,  nor  in  any  other,  for  that  matter,  as  you 
used  to  in  the  uniform  of  the  Twentieth,  but  if  you  like  it,  I  'm 
satisfied. 

Mar.  I  don't  like  it,  Father  Sulpice,  —  and  don't  suppose  I  ever 
shall!  But  aunty  says  it 's  the  proper  thing,  and  of  course  I  have 
to  do  as  she  bids  me  and  wear  it. 

SuL.    Yes,  my  child. 

Mar.  For  an  hour  ever}^  day  my  maid  drives  me  nearh*  wild  over 
dressing,  when  I  could  jump  into  my  clothes  in  ten  minutes,  if 
left  to  myself;  after  breakfast  comes  the  deportment  master,  to 
teach  me  how  to  walk;  then  an  hour  of  singing  lesson  with 
aunty;  and  finally  —  misery  of  miseries  —  the  dancing  master. 
I  'm  getting  dreadfully  tired  of  it  all. 

SuL.  Still,  Marie,  if  you  are  to  be  a  great  lady,  I  suppose  you  '11  have 
to  learn  all  these  things ! 

Mar.  But  I  don't  want  to  be  a  great  lady;  I  want — 1  suppose 
there  's  no  use  in  thinking  of  going  back  to  the  dear  old  Twen- 
tieth, now  that  the  Emperor  is  —  is  — 

SuL.  A  prisoner!  No,  child.  Everything  is  changed  in  France. 
The  sun  has  gone  down  there  forever. 

Mar.  Lookup,  Father  Sulpice!  Courage,  my  boy!  The  Emperor 
is  not  dead;  while  he  lives  there  is  hope  for  France.  He  will 
return, —  remember  it  is  I  who  say  it,  and  we  shall  be  with  our 
colors  again.  Meantime  we  are  Tyroleans.  Am  not  I  a  Berken- 
feldt,  —  a  child  of  the  mountains  and  crags,  as  Bruno  has  it? 
You  shall  see.    TyrolcilTl!        -^  V't>---t-^<_^^£^  ^-v^-^^C^ , 

Bruno.     {Enters. '\    Madame  the  Countess! 

Mar.     Good  morning,  aunty. 

Countess.    Lower,  my  child! 

Mar.     Lower  what,  aunty? 

Countess.    Your  reverence!     Lower,  Marie,  lower;  like  this. 


27 

Mae.     (Afiirle.)     I  shall  never  get  up  again. 

CorxTEss.     Very  well,  now  draw  yourself  erect  with  grace. 

Mae.  (Aside.)  I  will  if  I  can, — she's  worse  than  a  drill  ser- 
geant. 

Countess.  Oh  dear,  will  you  never  learn  to  make  a  perfect 
courtesy? 

Mar.  I'm  afraid  not,  aunty,  though  I  do  try  I  (Aside.)  Bother 
the  courtesy! 

Countess.    What  was  that? 

Mae.    Nothing,  aunty,  nothing. 

■Countess.  Not  aunty,  mademoiselle,  but  aunt.  Diminutives  are 
plebeian,  — had  form. 

Mae.     Yes,  aunty  —  I  mean,  aunt, 

Countess.  (Looking  at  Majii^.)  Yery  good!  Yery  good,  indeed, 
my  dear;  all  but,  there  I  I  think  it  will  do  now.  If  you  only 
would  learn  to  walk. 

Mae.  I  'm  sure  I  hardly  know  how  to  move  in  all  this  finery.  I 
feel  as  if  I  was  buckled  up  in  a  cuirass.  I  wish  I  could  take  it 
all  off  and  jump  into  my  jacket  and  trousers  again. 

SuL.  Beg  pardon,  Countess,  but  you  see  it  isn't  natural  marching 
with  a  lot  of  petticoats  dragging  about  vour  heels.  Just  you  put 
Marie  into  a  trim  uniform  with  her  ankles  free,  and  — 

Countess.  Stop!  Stop,  sir!  How  dare  you  mention  anj^body's  — 
their  —  what  you  did  mention,  in  my  presence?  How  dare  you, 
sir? 

Mae.  Really,  aunty  —  beg  pardon  aunt  —  Father  Sulpice  meant  no 
harm.  He  used  to  be  very  proud  of  my  ank  —  mine  —  you  know, 
when  I  was  in  the  Twentieth. 

SuL.  And  I 'm  sure  she  couldn't  help  having  them,  and  couldn't 
have  marched  at  all  without  'em. 

Countess.  Pray  spare  me  these  vulgar  details.  I  shall  ask  Monsieur 
Petipas  to  give  you  an  extra  hour's  practice  at  the  grand 
courtesy  to-morrow  morning.  The  Duke  of  Ahremberg  and  his 
mother  arrive  for  dinner,  and  I  wish  you  then  to  appear  at  your 
best;  above  all,  in  matters  of  etiquette.     You  understand? 

Mae.    I  think  I  do. 

Countess.  The  connection  Avill  be  a  most  eligible  one.  The  Ahrem- 
bergs  are  of  the  oldest  and  most  distinguished  noblesse. 

Mae.     Oh,  Father  Sulpice,  what  shall  I  do? 

Countess.  Ah,  here  it  is,  our  lovely  romanza  by  Caffarelli.  It 's  a 
veritable  gem  of  the  old  school,  in  purely  classical  style,  and  I 
mean  that  you  should  sing  it  to  the  duke.     Come,  Marie. 

Mae.     You  surely  don't  mean  that  I  'm  to  rehearse  it  now? 


28 


Countess.     Certainly,  child,  I  do.     I  will  accompany  you. 

Mar.     Bother  the  old  thing!     I  wish  it  were  in 
ahead! 

The  rosy  morning  now  awaketh, 
And  fair  Venus  to  earth  descends, 
Olympian  blisses  she  forsaketh, 
And  o'er  her  swain  enamoured  bends. 

SuL.     (Aside.)     We  never  sung  such  strains  as  that. 
Rataplan,  rataplan,  that  warms  the  heart. 
Rataplan,  rataplan! 
Child,  what  are  you  at? 
That  is  n't  of  your  song  a  part.  ■ 
Oh,  pray  excuse  me,  I  've  lost  my  place. 
Well,  begin  again,  if  that  is  the  case. 
And  while  the  Cyprian  goddess  gazes 
On  him  who  won  high  valor's  prize, 
Then  o'er  his  fair  and  gentle  features 
A  faint  smile  flies.     Her  love  replies  — 
(To  Mar.)    What  is  the  use  of  all  this  sighing? 
(To  SuL.)     That  is  the  classical  way  of  replying. 


All  right! 


Go 


Mar. 

Countess. 

Mar. 

Countess. 
Mar. 


SUL. 

Mar. 


Countess. 


Mar.  and  Sul.      Here  we  are,  here  we  are,  here  we  are,  we  say, 

In  we  go  with  a  dash,  and  we  win  the  day. 

Here  we  are,  here  we  are;  it  is  done; 

Bring  on  the  Twentieth;  the  battle  is  won. 

What  is  this?    What  do  they  sing? 

Shocking!     I  never  heard  such  a  thing. 

Come,  niece,  go  on!     Now  recommence. 
Mar.     (Aside.)     I  wish  her  song  had  a  spark  of  sense. 

While  lovely  Venus  gazed,  thus  fondly  sighing. 
Unto  her  bower  a  sound  was  faintly  wafted, 


Countess. 

Mar. 

Countess. 

Mar. 

Countess 

Mar. 

Countess. 

Mar. 

Countess. 

Mar. 

Countess. 


'T  was  Philomela,  in  sweet  song  replying, 
In  tender  accents  sighing  forth  her  woes. 
Very  well  sung,  but  you  must  sigh  as  she  did. 
Tra  la  la  la!    They  I  reply  as  he  did! 
Tra  la  la  la. 

Oh,  not  like  that!    No,  no. 
Tra  la. 


Tra  la. 


Now  louder. 


That  's  ffood. 


La. 


And  now  quite  low. 


Tra  la. 


That 's  bad. 


29 


Mar.  Tra  la.     Oh,  this  will  drive  me  mad. 

I  'm  tired  of  this  stuff, 
My  patience  is  at  end  ; 
I  like  my  old  songs  better. 
Couis'TESS.    I  can't  my  sanction  lend 
To  conduct  such  as  this. 
'T  is  unbecoming,  miss. 
Mak.  and  Svl.     Eataplan,  rataplan,  rataplan! 

To  a  soldier's  ear  no  sound's  so  dear 
As  the  drum  with  its  rattling  cheer. 
Countess,      f  Oh  dear,  oh  dear, 
I  sadly  fear 

She  never  will  be  comme  ilfaut! 
M.AR.  and    <(  To  the  front!    Eight  about! 
SuL.  With  a  cheer  and  a  shout! 

This  is  the  way  we  used  to  go; 
^  Rataplan,  rataplan,  rataplan! 


End  of  Act  Second. 


30 


ACT   THIRD, 

Scene.     Grand  Salon  in  Berkenfeldt  Castle. 

Chorus  of  Ladies. 

There  is  a  secret  in  this  affair, 

Ah  yes,  ah  yes. 

There  is  a  skeleton  hidden  somewhere, 

But  where  who  can  guess. 

She  wears  a  sad  and  dejected  air, 


Solo. 

She  is  iiUad.^^^;! 

Cho. 

She  should  be  merry 

Solo. 

'T  is  a  good  match. 

Cho. 

Oh,  yes,  indeed. 

Solo. 

He  is  rich? 

Cho. 

Well,  no,  not  very. 

Solo. 

That  is  too  bad. 

Cho. 

On  that  we  tc  as^reec 

But,  ah,  there  's  something  more 
In  this,  that  we  must  explore. 
There  's  not  a  doubt 
But  that  we  should  find  out 
The  cause  of  her  sadness 
And  what  it 's  about. 

Mdlle.  de  L.     Yes,  but  how  's  one  going  to  find  out,  I  should  like  to 

know?     There  's  no  getting  anything  out  of  her  maid. 
Countess  R.    Then  you  've  tried? 
Mdlle.  de  L.     Of  course  I  have, —  that  is,  I  got  my  maid  to.     But 

not  a  word. 
Mdlle.  de  N.     And  you  won't  get  a  word  either,  simply  because  her 

maid  is  n't  likely  to  be  in  the  secret. 
Countess  R.    Then  you  do  think  there  's  something? 
Mdlle.  de  X.     Certainly  I  do,  and  that  something  is  without  doubt 

merely  the  name  of  thy  other  man. 
Mdlle.  de  L.    Oh,  how  delightful! 


31 

Mdlle.  de  X.  Depend  on  it,  when  a  girl  cuts  up  rough  over  mar- 
rying a  duke,  —  any  duke,  I  don't  care  how  old,  or  poor,  or  any- 
thing else  he  may  be,  —  it's  because  there 's  somebody  else  she 
likes  better.  And  that 's  a  subject  she  's  not  likely  to  discuss 
with  her  maid. 

Countess  R.    The  old  sergeant  ought  to  know. 

Mdlle.  de  L.     He  probably  does,  but  I  should  n't  care  to  ask  him. 

Mdlle.  de  N.  I  shouldn't  mind — that  is,  if  the  question  were 
carefully  led  up  to.  He  's  extremely  gallant  in  his  rough  soldier- 
like way. 

CorxTESS  R.  Just  fancy  him  rearing  and  educating  a  young  girl,  the 
future  heiress  of  Berkenfeldt  at  that;  and  do  you  know,  she  's 
not  at  all  ill  bred  —  considering. 

Mdlle.  de  K.  I  don't  see  that  anything  has  to  be  considered.  Ma- 
rie's manner  may  not  be  in  every  little  detail  that  of  one  who  has 
been  bred  at  court;  but  it  has  a  distinction  of  its  own,  —  is  original, 
spontaneous,  and  always  perfectly  ladylike. 

Mdlle.  de  L.  All  the  same,  it 's  occasionally  awkward,  and  one 
scarcely  knows  what  to  call  it,  —  a  sort  of  coltish. 

CorxTESS  R.  When  she  is  a  duchess  that  will  pass  for  piquant 
originality. 

Mdlle.  de  N.  She  's  not  a  duchess  yet,  my  dear,  and,  somehow,  I 
have  a  presentiment  that  this  is  going  to  be  a  case  of  slip  between 
the  cup  and  the  lip.     You  know  she  has  n't  met  the  duke  yet. 

Mdlle.  de  L.     What  has  that  to  do  with  it? 

Mdlle.  de  X.  What!  You  who  know  him,  ask  such  a  question? 
.    Suppose  he  were  n't  a  duke,  would  yoti  have  him! 

Mdlle.  de  L.     Of  course  not.     But  he  is  a  dtike. 

CouxTEss  R.     And  any  girl  in  her  senses  would  jump  at  him. 

Mdlle.  de  X.     Even  if  there  were  some  other  whom  she  loved? 

Mdlle.  de  L.  Oh,  that 's  mere  sentimental  stuff  !  If  we  give  way 
to  that  sort  of  thing  we  should  all  be  marrying  poor  lieutenants 
and  younger  sons  — 

Mdlle.  de  R.     And  coachmen. 

Mdlle.  DE  X.     Hush! 

Brux^o.  [Enters.']  The  carriage  of  the  Duchess  of  Ahremberg  is 
coming  up  the  grand  avenue,  and  the  Countess  begs  that  the 
ladies  will  join  her  in  welcoming  her  Grace. 

Mdlle.  dk  X.     Certainly  we  will,  with  pleasure. 

Mdlle.  de  L.     Oh,  Biuno,  has  the  notary  arrived? 

CouxTEss  R.     And  the  duke!     Hasn't  he  come  yet? 

Brixo.  His  Grace  the  duke  is  expected  in  half  an  hour.  The 
notary  is  already  in  waiting. 

Mdlle.  de  X.     [To  ladief^ .~\    We  had  better  go  at  once. 


32 

Chorus. 
There  is  a  secret  in  this  affair; 
Ah,  yes,  a  skeleton  hidden  somewhere; 
She  wears  a  sad  and  dejected  air, 
I*^ot  at  all  such  as  blushing  brides  should  wear, 
Poor  thing!    ^  [Exit  C horns. 

Bruko.  Now  I  must  try  to  find  the  sergeant,  and  get  him  to  dispose 
somehow  of  the  wounded  soldier,  who  is  below  stairs.  It  will 
never  do  to  let  mademoiselle  see  him  or  even  know  he  's  here 
before  the  marriage  contract  is  signed,  or  we  shall  find  ourselves 
with  all  our  fat  in  the  fire.  If  ever  she  sets  eyes  on  that  French 
uniform  I  won't  answer  for  the  consequences. 

[Marie  enters  from  door^  and  Bruno  reiiVes.] 

Song. — Marie. 
The  die  is  cast  and  my  fate  is  decided. 
I  have  none  to  protect,  no  friend  to  save  me. 
What  to  me  is  wealth,  what  is  splendor? 
Never  can  I  by  them  be  beguiled, 
While  I  sigh  for  the  love  true  and  tender 
That  I  knew  when  fate  more  kindly  smiled. 
Though  arrayed  in  all  that  is  rarest, 
'JSTeath  the  diamonds  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim; 
What  avails  that  they  call  me  the  fairest, 
If  the  fairest  I  am  not  for  him? 
Ye  loved  companions  of  my  childhood, 
From  whom  hard  fate  hath  bid  me  part, 
Let  me  on  earth  once  more  behold  you. 
And  rest  my  weary,  troubled  heart. 
And  yet  this  hated  marriage 
Fills  every  heart  with  pleasure. 
In  vain  I  sigh;  I  must  to  fate  submit. 
What  sounds  are  those  I  hear? 
Heavens!     Can  it  be  an  illusion? 
It  is,  it  is  the  march  of  the  Twentieth! 
Oh,  my  loved  companions! 

[Enter  Corporal  and  Soldiers.] 

Oh  what  pleasure,  joyous  meeting, 
Friends  and  companions  of  my  heart ! 
Oh,  the  bliss  of  this  fond  greeting! 
Would  it  were  no  more  to  part. 
France,  ah,  my  heart  is  thine. 


33 

Hail,  glorious  land  of  mine. 

Thou  by  the  right  divine 

Art  ever  victorious. 

Proudly  thy  eagles  shine, 

As  forward  thy  battle  line 

Advances  so  glorious. 

Our  banner  advancing. 

Where'er  't  is  unfurled, 

Brings  freedom  and  liberty, 

Brings  light  to  the  world. 
Cho.  Marie,  our  daughter, 

Oh  what  joy  thus  to  meet,  ^ 

From  battle  and  from  slaughter, 

We  come  our  child  to  greet. 
Mae,.  Oh  what  joy  once  more  to  meet  you. 

To  renew  those  days  of  yore, 

For  I  feared  no  more  to  greet  you. 

Feared  I  ne'er  should  see  your  more. 

Companions  dear, 

l^ow  you  are  here. 
Mar.  and    France,  ah  my  heart  is  thine! 
Cho.  Hail,  glorious  land  of  mine! 

Proudly  thy  eagles  shine; 

My  heart  is  thine. 

Corp,       Comrades,  I  believe  our  child  is  really  glad  to  see  us  again. 

She  has  n't  forgotten  her  fathers. 
Mar.    Xot  one  of  then!    Phillipe,  Henri,  and  you,  dear  old  Francois. 

But  — 
Corp.    Well! 
Mar.    I  —  I  miss  — 

Corp.    Comrades,  the  child  must  mean  our  captain. 
Mar,    Ko,  no.    I  mean  — 

{Enter  Tony  with  Sulpice.] 
Tony.    Marie! 
Mar,    Ahl 

SUL.     It's  all  right,  comrades;  in  the  family,  you  know. 
Tony,    Yes,  Marie,  here  I  am.    I  'm  not  killed,  though  I  've  done 

nothing  but  try  to  be.    Never  mind,  I  'm  glad  now  I  'm  alive. 
Mar,    Are  you  sure,  safe  and  sound,  and  no  wounds? 
Tony.    One  or  two.    I  'm  grazed  on  my  shoulder,   I  've  a  cut   on 

my  leg,  I  've  had  a  bullet  go  clean  through  my  side,  and  I  've  lost 

the  tip  of  my  ear. 


34 

Mar.     And  gained  promotion? 

Tony.    Yes,  but  I  did  n't  deserve  it. 

Mar.    No? 

Tony.    KoI 

SuL.    Aha!     'T  was  the  fortune  of  war.    Eh,  Tony? 

Mar.    Tell  me  pray  how  it  was. 

Tony.  You  know  I  wanted  to  be  killed.  I  ran  into  all  dangers 
on  purpose.  My  officers  thought  it  was  my  bravery,  when  it  was 
only  my  love. 

Mar.    Poor  Tony  I 

Tony.  My  first  battle  made  me  a  corporal;  my  second,  a  ser- 
geant; I  hardly  know  why,  except  I  tried  all  I  could  to  be 
shot.  Then,  in  my  third  battle,  after  doing  such  deeds  as  aston- 
ished myself  and  everybody  else,  there  was  a  fort  to  be  taken;  it 
was  a  forlorn  hope  —  everybody  was  sure  to  be  killed.  "  Xow  's 
your  time,  Tony,"  says  I.  I  was  first  to  volunteer,  was  accepted, 
and  away  I  went,  did  n't  I,  Corporal? 

Corp.    Yes,  Captain. 

Mar.    Well? 

Tony.  The  men  were  shot  down  on  all  sides  of  me;  that's  where  I 
lost  the  tip  of  my  ear.  On  I  went  till  I  found  myself  opposite 
to  a  Russian  ensign,  seven  feet  high.  Oh!  such  a  giant!  The 
staff  of  his  flag  had  been  shot  away;  he  seized  me  in  his  brawny 

Diharms,  and  what  do  you  think  he  did? 

Mau.    What? 

Tony.  Tied  me  up  in  his  flag,  and  threw  me  over  his  shoulder  as 
his  prisoner. 

Omnes.    Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Mar.    I  wish  I  had  been  there !    Well? 

Tony.  At  that  moment  a  cannon  shot  carried  off  his  head;  down 
he  went  and  I  under  him,  into  the  ditch.  I  got  clear  of  my  cus- 
tomer as  soon  as  I  could.  The  fort  was  taken,  —  scarcely  a  man 
was  left  but  myself.  1  returned  in  triumph,  wrapped  up  in  the 
Russian  flag,  which  I  couldn't  get  out  of,  was  received  with 
cheers,  had  the  credit  of  carrying  a  fort,  and  taking  an  enemy's 
standard,  and  a  month  afterwards  I  woke  up  one  morning,  and 
found  myself  an  officer. 

SuL.    There  's  a  hero ! 

[Enter  Bruno.] 

Bruno.  Soldiers  in  the  grand  salon!  soldiers  in  the  kitchen!  sol- 
diers in  the  pantry!  soldiers  in  the  wine  cellar!  soldiers  every- 
where! damn  me,  it  rains  soldiers. 


35 

Mar.     What  is  it,  Bruno?    What  do  you  want? 

Bruno.    The — the  duchess  has  arrived! 

Mar.    Heavens! 

Suii.     Sacre  bleu! 

Mar.    I  had  quite  forgotten. 

SuL.     What  shall  we  do? 

Mar.     Comrades,  our  friend  here,  my  aunt's  steward,  proposes  to 

treat  you  to  a  bottle  of  wine;  I  hope  you  won't  refuse  him! 
Soldiers.    No,  no!  certainly  not. 
Mar.    These  are  my  friends,  Bruno,  and  I  request  you  will   treat 

them  well,  and  see  that  they  want  for  nothing. 
Bruno.     But,  mademoiselle  — 
SuL.    Attention!  right  about  face!  march! 
Bruno.    But  I  can't  march! 
SuL.    You  can't  march,  eh? 
Bruno.    But  I  sha'n't  march. 
SuL.    Away  with  him,  boys! 

[Exit  Soldiers  with  Bruno. 

(Song. — Tony.  Introduced.) 

IVIar.    I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Tony,  —  but  — 

Tony.     But  what,  Marie? 

Mar.    I  'm  very  unhappy. 

Tony.    Tor  what  cause? 

Mar.     Because  I  'm  going  to  be  married! 

Tony.     Married !    To  whom? 

Mar.  I  hardly  know.  During  the  two  years  that  I  have  been  quar- 
tered with  my  aunt,  I  have  never  heard  of  my  regiment,  and 
thinking  you  were  all  killed  in  Eussia  or  disbanded,  I  promised 
to  yield  to  the  wishes  of  my  aunt,  —  and  —  and  — 

lEnter  SuiiPiCE.] 

SuL.  Marry  a  man  who  is  n't  one  of  her  fathers,  —  only  a  duke ; 
but  don't  be  cast  down  now.  Captain.  She  is  n't  married  to  the 
duke  yet. 

Trio.  —  Marie,  Tony,  and  Sulpice. 
Though  we  parted  have  been. 
We  are  now  met  again. 
And  the  wrong  shall  at  last  be  righted. 
We  who  comrades  have  been 
Still  are  comrades  as  when 
We  marched  in  the  Twentieth  united, 
SuL.  Oh,  fond  remembrance  ! 


36 


Tony. 
Mar. 

Oh,  days  of  glory  I 
Forever  vanished! 

Tony. 

They  will  return. 

Mar. 

(To  SuLPiCE.)     'T  is  you  must  speak  for  me, 
Yes,  do  without  delay. 

Tony. 

SUL. 

I  claim  your  faithful  promise. 
Oh,  dear,  what  shall  I  say! 

Ensemble. 
Though  we  parted  have  been,  etc. 

[Enter  Countess.] 

Countess.     A  stranger!    In  the  French  uniform!     Marie,  what 

does  this  mean? 
Mar.    It  means  — 
SuL.    Yes,  madame,  it  means  — 
Mar.    It  means  Tony,  aunt!    Yes,  Tony! 
SUL.    Yes,  madame,  Captain  Tony  of  the  Twentieth  Grenadiers  of 

the  line. 
Mar.    Whom  I  've  known,  ah,  ever  so  long,  and  who  saved  my  life, 

—  and  whom  —  whom  — 
SUL.    Whom  she  loves,  madame!    There  it 's  over. 
Countess.    Loves!    Horror! 
Tony.    Madame ! 
Countess.    Not  a  word,  sir!    Not  a  word!     My  niece  is  this  very 

hour  to  be  formally  betrothed  to  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Ahrem- 

berg!     That  is  settled! 
SuL.    There  is  one  thing  not  yet  settled,  Madame  Countess,  and  it 

may  as  well  be  considered  before  we  go  any  further;  Marie  has 

never  yet  consented  to  marry  your  duke. 
Countess.    Not  consented!    She  hasn't  been  asked. 
SuL.     Precisely!     But  I'll  warrant  you   the   duke   has   asked  how 

much  money  she 's  got. 
Countess.    Impertinent!    (To  Marie.)    Marie,  leave  us.    Go  to  your 

room. 
Mar.     I  don't  wish  to. 
Countess.    Mademoiselle!  go  to  your  room! 
Mar.    Very  well,  madame,  I  obey.     lExit.'] 
Countess.     (To  Tony.)    As  for  you,  sir,  I  —  I  — 
SuL.     Pardon  me,  madame;  but  perhaps  the  captain  had  better  retire 

for  a  moment. 
Countess.    I  was  about  to  request  the  captain  to  retire  perma- 
nently.   We  have  no  further  use  for  him  here. 


37 

SuL.  I  would  n't  be  too  sure  of  that,  Miladi,  but,  at  all  events,  for  the 
present,  we  can  spare  him.  (To  Tony.)  Join  our  comrades 
below;  I  '11  let  you  know  when  you 're  wanted. 

Tony.    Kemember,  we  are  in  your  hands,  madame.     [Exit.'] 

SuL.  And  now,  Madame  Countess,  that  we  have  disposed  of  our  skir- 
mish line, —  that's  the  youngsters,  —  it  begins  to  look  as  though 
we  had  brought  on  a  serious  engagement,  doesn't  it? 

Countess.     What  do  you  mean? 

SuL.    If  you  will  sit  for  a  moment,  I  will  explain. 

Countess.  I  don't  care  to  sit  down.  Tell  me  what  you  have  to  say, 
and  make  it  short. 

SuL.  As  short  as  possible,  Miladi.  But  you  had  better  sit  down. 
As  you  like!  well  then,  in  this  matter  of  Tony,— Captain  Tony  of 
the  Twentieth,  —  and  your  niece  — 

Countess.    There  is  nothing  further  to  be  said  on  the  subject. 

SuL.  Oh  yes,  Miladi,  pardon  me;  I  think  there  is,  —  one  little  word. 
But  first  let  me  understand !  You  positively  decline  to  entertain 
any  proposal  of  Captain  Tony  for  the  hand  of  your  niece? 

Countess.    Positively!    The  thing  's  absurd. 

SuL.     What,  then,  if  he  should  ask  for  your  daughter? 

Countess.    My  daughter! 

SuL.  Yes,  Countess,  your  daughter,  Marie,  whom  you  sent  on  that 
fateful  night  to  her  father,  your  husband,  in  order  that  he  might 
embrace  his  child,  and  whom  we  found  in  the  arm  of  your  dead 
Servant,  and  adopted.  What  if  he  should  ask  for  your 
daughter? 

Countess.    Oh,  spare  me,  spare  me! 

SuL.  I  cannot,  Miladi  Countess!  My  duty  is  to  the  child.  You,  hur 
own  mother,  would  force  her  to  a  marriage  that  she  abhors.  It 
is  for  me  to  see  that  she  is  united  to  the  man  she  loves. 

Countess.     This  is  nonsense!    By  what  right  do  you  interfere,  sir? 

SuL.  A  strange  question,  madame,  to  address  to  one  who  has  loved 
and  protected  her  all  her  life!  I  have  been  father,  aye,  and 
mother  to  her,  ever  since  she  could  walk!  and,  damn  me,  ma- 
dame, I  '11  fight  for  her  now  against  all  the  countesses  and  dukes  iu 
Austria! 

Countess.    After  all,  how  do  you  know  that  Marie  is  — is  — 

SuL.  Your  daughter,  madame?  It  is  very  simple.  From  our  first 
interview  I  suspected  something,  I  could  n't  tell  what,  but  some- 
thing. Of  course,  I  said  nothing  to  the  child  —  to  anybody,  in 
fact;  but  I  didn't  forget,  and  kept  my  pickets  well  to  the  fore. 
Only  about  three  weeks  ago  I  was  out  after  antelope,  on  the  tall 
hills  about  eight  miles  distant,  and  stopped  for  milk  at  the  cottage 


38 

that  is  well  nigh  hidden  by  the  pines  in  the  little  black  valley;  yon 
know  the  place,  madarae?  You  know,  too,  whom  I  found  living 
there,  as  your  pensioner,  —  old  Gretel,  who  had  been  Marie's 
nurse,  —  who  was  wife  of  the  peasant  whom  we  found  dead  that 
night,  and  who,  knowing  me  to  be  Marie's  friend  and  companion, 
and,  supposing  that  I  was  aware  of  all  the  circumstances,  spoke  to 
me  of  the  past  quite  unreservedly  and  frankly.  The  good  old 
woman  is  growing  a  trifle  weak  here,  madame,  and  is  n't  quite  as 
safe  a  confidante  as  she  used  to  be.     You  see 'tis  very  simple. 

Countess.    What  am  I  to  do? 

SuL.    That  also  is  very  simple.    Send  the  duke  about  his  business, 
and  let  Marie  wed  the  man  of  her  choice. 

Countess.    But  what  will  the  world  say?    These  things  are  never 
done  in  society! 

SuL.    Not  often,  perhaps;  still,  occasionally  a  girl  marries  the  man 
she  loves.     Do  what  is  right,  madame,  and  chance  the  rest. 

Countess.    Shall  I  have  to  tell  her  all? 

SuL.    Let  me  do  that.  Countess;  it  will  be  the  easier  way. 

Bab.     [Enters.^    The  ladies! 

Countess.    What  is  that? 

Bab.    The  ladies,  Countess,  to  conduct  mademoiselle  to  the  grand 
salon  for  the  signing  of  the  contracts. 

Countess.     (To  Sulpice.)    Go!  go  now  and  tell  her. 

[Exit  Sulpice. 

[Enter  Ladies.] 
Countess.    My  —  niece  —  will  be  with  us  directly. 

Finale. 

[Enter  Marie,  followed  by  Sulpice.] 

Countess.    Marie ! 

Mar.    Oh!  my  mother! 

Countess.    My  daughter!  silence! 

SuL.    Be  cautious! 

Cho.     At  last  her  joy  will  be  completed. 

Mar.    Must  I  sign? 

Countess.    It  is  my  wish,  dearest. 

[Soldiers  heard  outside.'] 

Cho.  Gracious  Heaven!  what  commotion! 

What  shouting! 
What  can  all  this  mean? 


39 


Bruno.     Hurrah  for  the  Twentieth!  Huzza!  I  'm  a  Twentieth-eth- 
ster  myself. 


Cho. 


Tony. 


Ladies. 
Soldiers. 

Ladies. 

SUL. 

Ladies. 
Mar. 


Ladies. 

Mar. 

Tony. 
Countess. 


i 


[Enter  Soldiers  with  Corporal.] 

Child  heloved,  we  come  to  save  you, 
Cast  aside  all  vain  alarm, 
Aunt  nor  friends  shall  now  enslave  you, 
We  will  guard  you  from  all  harm. 
Dry  your  tears  and  weep  no  longer, 
We  will  show  that  we  're  the  stronger, 
'T  is  to  save  you  we  are  here ; 
Come,  then,  daughter,  —  have  no  fear. 
Oh,  friends,  unless  you  save  her. 
By  force  they  will  enslave  her; 
To  me  her  faith  is  plighted. 
My  suit  with  scorn  they  slighted. 
Oh,  save  us  from  despair! 
Whence  came  you?    What  seek  you? 
She  's  our  daughter,  to  him  affianced, 
She 's  our  own,  —  our  Vivandiere. 
What  a  low  and  vile  connection, 
Vivandiere  to  horrid  soldiers ! 
This  will  end  the  Countess'  dreams. 
Can  this  be  so! 
'Tisso! 

Can  I  forget  them,  so  true  and  so  tender. 
Who  guarded  in  childhood  my  life  with  loving  care? 
Bather  will  I  wealth  and  rank  all  surrender. 
My  heart  is  with  them,  and  for  them  I  all  will  dare. 
A  candid,  sweet  confession, 
[  A  grateful  heart's  expression. 
The  truth  is  spoken!  oh,  my  mother, 
Have  pity  on  me ! 
What  will  she  say? 

Ah,  my  daughter,  shall  I  who  love  you  dearly 
Cause  so  much  grief? 
Stay,  I  charge  ye. 

Children,  I  will  not  for  vain  ambition's  sake 
See  your  young  lives  blighted; 
My  pride  I  now  will  conquer,  and  if  you, 
Marie,  truly  love  him. 
You  shall  le  united. 
(Placing  Marie's  hand  in  Tony's.)    Yes,  take  her. 


40 


SuL.  Miladi  Countess,  that 's  well  done. 

But  for  my  long  mustache 

I  kiss  you,  by  the  powers  — 
Ladies.        This  is  scandalous,  'tis  shocking, 

Yet  the  match  is  not  so  bad. 
Omnes.         France,  ah,  my  heart  is  thine, 

Hail,  glorious  land  of  mine! 

Proudly  thy  eagles  shine ; 

My  heart  is  thine. 


End  of  Opeka. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

MUSIC  LIBRARY 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


NOV  1    1974 

DEC  2  7 1974 

LD2lA-5m-ll,'72 
(Q5761S10)476— A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


ML50.D6.F5  1887 
C037528226 

U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


ill 


CD37SEflEEt. 


DATE  DUE 


Music  Library 

University  of  California  at 
Berkeley 


